Shadow Princess (44 page)

When he was done, he held up a small bowl of cool, whitish paste in both his hands as an offering to his sovereign. “It will not work unless I make it myself, your Majesty.”

Shah Jahan rose to grab the vessel from his begrimed hands. “If it works, you will make it yourself every day, and when the princess recovers, you will own a mansion on the banks of the Yamuna, any one you choose, even one currently occupied.”

He ran to his daughter’s apartments and smeared the salve on her himself, praying all the while. Her burns seemed to wane upon first contact, but he continued praying, hoping that he was seeing not what he wanted to see but what actually was. But no, an hour later, she fell into a profound sleep and stopped moving restlessly on the bed. Two days later, the wounds dried up. A month later, they had almost completely healed, and she slept more soundly and woke refreshed and laughing.

This second
fakir
was heaped with riches, and Emperor Shah Jahan could not help but think that perhaps the first one had also spoken the truth all those years ago.

•  •  •

Remembering that first
fakir,
Shah Jahan studied the letters he had received from disgruntled commanders of the imperial army in the Deccan—all condemning in a veiled manner Aurangzeb’s conduct in the various sorties the army had led into the Deccani kingdoms. Elephants captured from one foray had not been sent to the imperial stables, or the jewelry from one stormed fort now adorned the ladies of the prince’s
zenana,
or something even as simple as the prince not allowing the foraging parties to stray too far, afraid of their being ambushed, and so the campaign had to be abandoned in a few short weeks because of a lack of fuel and water. Taken by itself, each accusation was spiteful, and Shah Jahan would not have paid heed to them. But he was troubled about Jahanara, how slowly she was recovering, and felt how weak his heart had become from this constant battering of uncertainty—and he took it out on the son he did not like. Prince Dara Shikoh, reading the missives over his father’s shoulder, added his protests also.

At the end of May 1644, Shah Jahan wrote a curt letter to Aurangzeb, still encamped outside Agra waiting out his sister’s illness, and told him that, because of the reports that had reached him about Aurangzeb’s misconduct, he was now dismissed from the viceroyalty of the Deccan and could not return to Burhanpur.

As a final insult to his son, the Emperor sent Saif Khan, one of his brothers-in-law, to take over the now-vacant governorship. Aurangzeb had assiduously cultivated all of his powerful relations, but he had neglected Saif Khan, who was married to his mother’s sister Mallika Banu. Now he smoldered with envy that Saif would go to Burhanpur, live in the palaces he had remodeled himself, take over an easily managed army that Aurangzeb had trained.

The prince had lost yet another supporter recently, his grandfather Abul Hasan—Mumtaz Mahal’s father, who was buried at Lahore in 1641 in a fine tomb with blue tile work across from the crypt of Emperor Jahangir. Both men had been fathers of royalty—Abul’s daughter was Empress Mumtaz Mahal, and Jahangir’s son was Emperor Shah Jahan. The difference was, of course, that Jahangir himself had been Emperor, so his mausoleum was grander. And though Abul’s sister Mehrunnisa had been Empress and wife of Jahangir, space for her final resting place was allotted farther away.

It was—Aurangzeb thought disconsolately when he received his father’s missive—a lesson in kingship. Better to die a monarch than a deposed one or an unwanted one—his status at death would determine the shape, size, and structure of the tomb that would house his remains. And the grander it was—Aurangzeb had just visited the Luminous Tomb and marveled, unwillingly, at the elegance of his father’s inspired design—the more likely posterity would be to remember him.

He wondered what he would do now and waited daily for some news from his father. What came was a condescending invitation from Dara to visit the splendid mansion he had lately built on the banks of the Yamuna near the fort, with all the copious monies their father had bestowed upon him.

As it was the summer season, an underground room had been constructed close to the river, and mirrors from Aleppo . . . had been hung. . . . Dara conducted Shah Jahan and his brothers to see how the room looked. Muhammad Aurangzib sat down close to the door leading in and out of the room. Dara . . . winked at the Emperor, as if to say, “See where he is sitting.”

—
JADUNATH SARKAR
,
Anecdotes of Aurangzib

Agra

Thursday, June 2, 1644

26 Rabi’ al-awwal
A.H.
1054

T
he mansion—really more of a palace to rival the ones inside the fort at Agra—was massive, stretching its length along the Yamuna River and its breadth landward into a grove of mango and guava trees that cast their dense shade on the beaten earth and were filled with the bright green of a thousand parrots. The birds dropped half-eaten fruit on the ground, greedily consuming all they could find, unmindful of the waste. Mammoth pink and blue snakes, fashioned out of fragrant sandalwood, nestled in the branches of the trees, realistic even to their forked tongues raised into the air, but the parrots were undeterred. They cried out to one another in their raucous language, swarmed in and out of the leaves, flying so low that the imperial
malis,
who took care of the garden, had to duck at times. They squabbled over pieces of guava, scolded the humans from their perches, serene in the knowledge that they could not be caught.

Dara came running to the colossal wood-and-metal studded doors of his palace, pushing the slaves aside, laughing as he ushered his father and his brothers in. “The birds are unmanageable.”

“Why don’t you take a musket and shoot them?” Aurangzeb asked coolly.

Dara shuddered. “Kill them, you mean? You were always violent, Aurangzeb. There is little harm in the parrots; they create an inconvenience, that is all. But come in and see my marvelous house. What do you think of it, Bapa?”

They wandered through all the rooms as breezes from the Yamuna dried the sweat on their brows and cooled their heated skins. It was a strange procession, Prince Aurangzeb thought as he lingered behind his father and his brothers. They had always been feted and entertained on Bapa’s bounty, or Jahan had played hostess to them in the
zenana,
offering dinners and
nautch
girls, but here was Dara assuming the role of patron. He could not bring himself to consider this invitation as a mere pleasure for them all—they were grown men, scattered around the Empire; opportunities, such as this one, to gather in one place, to break bread together, to mull over the problems of their inheritance were rare. He saw it instead as a show of might by Dara. A magnificent mansion with no expense spared—gold and enamel-inlaid censers in every room, silk curtains from Bengal, marble floors from the Rajput kingdoms, ivory figurines from Africa, the best sandstone from Fatehpur-Sikri. Everywhere the eye went, it met with plenty, an open hand for purchases, with, it seemed to say, the vast coffers of the imperial treasury behind it. Aurangzeb had seen Dara’s chair in the Diwan-i-am, one he had refused to occupy for the month that Aurangzeb had been in Agra, saying that he would consider himself blessed to sit in his father’s presence when Jahanara was finally recovered. It was she who had exhorted the four brothers to meet—this luncheon was her idea.

Overwhelmed by the quiet opulence of Dara’s house, Aurangzeb followed the party to an underground room whittled into the banks of the river. It was long, with a high ceiling carved out in red sandstone, lit brilliantly by hundreds of oil
diyas
in niches along the walls. The wisping smoke from the
diyas
flung a glaze over Aurangzeb’s eyes and made them water. Dara had commissioned a new carpet for the room, thirty feet long, twenty feet wide, in blue with a white border. It had taken the weavers two years to make. The pile was thick and lush, and their bare feet sank into its embrace. Luxurious as Aurangzeb’s camp in Agra was, there was a real gratification in being able to stand upon a finished floor, feel the solidity of walls enclosing him and a ceiling over his head. He had come to loathe the encampment, for it meant he was in temporary circumstances here—no longer the head of a state, with no place to call his own, no people to govern. In the same breath that Shah Jahan had dismissed Aurangzeb from the Deccan governorship he had lauded Murad for . . . something; Aurangzeb could no longer remember what it had been. But it had warranted a public audience at court, a
khilat
and a gold dagger, a nod of approval in front of the nobles in the Diwan-i-am.

They sat down to eat. Eunuchs filed in with a large red tablecloth, which they laid on the carpet in front of the divans. And then they brought in the food from the kitchens of the mansion. Aurangzeb noted that the dishes, in gold and silver, were each tied with white and red muslin, with a paper tag attached to the top knot on which the Khansamah, the superintendent of the kitchens, had written the name of the dish and its ingredients and placed his seal upon the knot but a few minutes ago. The dishes were untied, and a royal taster, his face covered with a cotton mask, his hands gloved in white cotton, dipped a spoon into each preparation and took the spoon to his mouth, lifting the cloth over his face. His nose and mouth were normally covered when not engaged in the actual operation of tasting so that his breath or saliva would not defile the food. Then every dish was laid out, and Aurangzeb took a deep breath, his mouth watering.

There were smoky brown curries of lamb and goat, still bubbling in their rich gravies, and piles of warm
naans,
creamy and perfectly baked, peeled from the walls of the underground ovens, their undersides crisp. A whole roasted chicken, warm and moist, steamed on a silver platter, cooked with a spice rub of garlic and coriander seeds, marinated overnight in yogurt. The rice came from the foothills of the Himalayas, aromatic on its own but seasoned further with strands of golden saffron and garnished with cashews, raisins, and anise fried in
ghee.
There were fifteen plates of cooked vegetables, potatoes, new peas, spinach swirled with cream, plump beans, stuffed
brinjals
—each spiced differently, subtly, so that Aurangzeb had to taste every morsel on his plate and ponder upon the recipe. The cucumbers and the carrots in the salad had been picked from the imperial vegetable gardens that morning, still scattered with dew, and they were crunchy and melted in the mouth with their spare dressing of lime juice, salt, pepper, and some sesame oil.

Aurangzeb ate with relish, though he had decided that there were other matters more engaging to his mind and his body than food. He felt a comfort he had not sensed in a long while, ever since he had decided to be on a simple diet, but the food was delicious, and he promised himself that this would be the last time he would indulge himself so.

At the end of the meal, Dara rose and said, “I must go see about the entertainment, if you will excuse me.”

They all murmured assent, replete, content, lying back on their divans. When Dara departed, he shut the door, and Aurangzeb’s head jerked up. He realized that they were alone except for a handful of aged retainers, too old to do anything if there was danger. Here, in Dara’s cool underground room, the door had closed upon all the rivals his brother had for the throne. He jumped up and rushed to the door. It did not give immediately to his shoulder, and he heaved against it until it swung open, mocking him—it had not been locked after all. He sat panting on the doorstep, enraged at having allowed himself to be placed in such a vulnerable position.

“What are you doing, Aurangzeb?” Emperor Shah Jahan asked, a slice of irritation in his voice.

Aurangzeb bowed from the door. “Bapa, I prefer to sit here.”

Dara returned and found him blocking the way. “Will you move? How will the musicians enter if you are here?”

“Why was it necessary for you to go personally to see about the arrangements, Dara? Could you not have sent a slave?”

Dara shrugged, gazing down at his brother. “You are a fool, Aurangzeb. This is my house, you are my guest, and you dare question my movements?”

In the end, the entertainers had to maneuver around the seated prince to find their way inside. Aurangzeb refused to budge, listening to the music with half an ear, wishing himself anywhere but there. His father and his brothers drank steadily, wine brought in from the Abdar Khana in gold flasks set with emeralds and rubies. He had put a hand over his goblet when the wine was first served and tried to exhort the others to follow his example, but they had laughed.

“Drink, Aurangzeb,” Murad said, smiling, “and perhaps it will loosen the stiffness of your countenance. How does your wife bear your glum face every day?”

The melodic sound of the
sitar
grated on his ears—in his encampment he had put a halt to all such amusement; the food was the plainest, music had no place, and the camp was dry. If his
amirs
wished to indulge in liquor, they had to do it elsewhere. He leaned against the doorjamb and watched them get drunk, laugh, and make jokes he did not find in the least humorous, and his head began to ache. Down the stairs leading to this room came the faint song of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer.
Allah u Allah u Akbar.